The old man stared at the wall.

“Sad, really,” said the voice of a nurse, from somewhere over his head. “He used to be so brilliant. My mum says she saw him on stage when she was a kid.”

“They all used to be so brilliant,” murmured the other nurse. “It’s horrible what forgetting does to a person.”

The old man was not listening. Well, he was, but he wasn’t processing any of it. There’s something I’ve forgotten. His brow was faintly furrowed. Yes, something, something just beyond his grasp…

“Mr. Alton?” The friendly, well-meaning face of the nurse entered his field of vision. “Mr. Alton, would you like lunch?”

The old man shifted in his wheelchair. Lunch, yes. But that was an abstract thing in comparison to the mammoth obstacle shutting away the recesses of his mind. “Lunch sounds nice,” he agreed. There’s something I’ve forgotten.

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There was a clinking of spoons and a tray was set down before him. Absentmindedly, he began to drink the soup, with the nurse dabbing at his chin when it was needed.

“You’ve got visitors this afternoon,” the nurse said brightly. “Your grandchildren.”

The old man searched the depths of his memory, and found shallow waters. “Yes,” he said. The constant, passive distress in him quaked gently. I have grandchildren. I know their faces, I know I do, but names… names are so tricky. I must love them, I know I must.

He looked up at the nurse. “Have they visited before?”

The nurse’s smile wavered. “Yes, Mr. Alton. Just last week.”

“Oh.” He ventured a feeble attempt at a joke. “I must be getting old.”

The nurse gave a short laugh. “It happens to everyone,” he said with false joviality. “Don’t worry.”

The old man tried to smile back. He felt himself scrabbling after a hazy trail of memory which was already fading. “Thank you for the lunch.”

“Anytime, Mr. Alton.”

The old man stared at the wall. There’s something I’ve forgotten.